stranded in a prison with only one window
by viciousboar
Summary: "Who are you to tell me that? I know I'm better than doing nothing!" you jab a furious finger at his collared shirt. Sam confronts her future.


Everyone wants to know.

Reliable, fire-setting Spencer.

"Watch'a thinking of doing after Ridgeway, Sam?"

/

"I don't suppose _you_ have any college plans, then."

Mrs. Benson, sneering as usual.

/

"Yo Sam! We got a job open for you after graduation!"

T-Bo throws at you right as you walk in the door, demanding a Blueberry Blitz.

/

"So, which community college will you be wasting my swimsuit money on, eh?"

Oh, Mom. Love you too.

/

"Hey, Sam! Under occupations, do you think I could write web-show guest star, or maybe even co-host?"

Gibby. He's no longer a shirtless potato.

/

"Can you believe we'll be heading to college in less than a year, Sam!"

Carly.

At least she says _we_.

/

Nothing comes from him. No expectations or questions, no predictions or comments, no condescending remarks or even help.

Just what you needed.

/

It's not going to happen.

Success is invariable for Carly and Freddie.

Not the same can be said for you.

/

Nothing can scare Sam Puckett.

A late night and both of you are sprawled along the couch, hands and legs intertwined.

Carly is upstairs relaxing in a warm bath, careful of where she sticks her toes.

Out of nowhere, he breaks to you the news.

"I got accepted into M.I.T."

A lengthy pause as you consider this unfortunately inevitable ordeal. You're proud of him, no doubt (hey, remember when he was the geeky eighth-grader, trying to flirt with Carly by explaining to her the pros and cons of a tripod?"). He's finally achieving what he's wanted.

"Wonderful."

/

It's a fast world.

You wonder how it all came at you so fast, without so much as a warning.

_Remember_?

Carly shoves a picture in your face. Five years ago, three kids were fooling around with a camcorder.

It used to be as simple as detention and confiscation and constant haranguing; it's all fun and games, 'til the world says its over and everything has to change.

/

When she hears the word 'future', she sees a bottle floating in the middle of the ocean, under a starless sky. Dour clouds loom above and the bottle is pushed about by persistent waves. The bottle has no direction; it contains a note, but she never reads it. She's sure it says something important, but it never reveals itself. It just bobs up and down, a lazed slug in the middle of the ocean, afraid to take lead and lets the undulations shove it around.

If Sam can beat up truck drivers and whack television writers with a sock full of butter, why does her stomach flip-flop every time she hears the word 'future'?

Nothing can scare Sam Puckett.

...right?

/

The last iCarly is short and simple; no sentiment, just a few regular segments here and there. Random Dancing, Baby Spencer, Messin' with Lewbert, Animals Dressed Like Other Animals, and Carly's nice enough to allow Freddie a few moments of Tech Time with Freddie.

Only when Freddie finally turns off the camera and says, "We're clear," and the constantly goofy grin disappears from your face, does the whole thing seem ridiculously mawkish to you.

Tears have already flooded down Carly's face. Spencer slings his arm around her and Gibby, both sobbing, while he himself struggles to not cry. Gibby, over the abundance of tears, manages to say what everyone's thinking.

"It's really over."

/

Graduation comes and goes with some kid you're sure you've stuffed into a trash-can or pelted eggs at many a time gives a speech that sends everyone into tears.

Except you, who sits numbly and blankly as everyone sits with anticipation for the bright prospects of their future.

But you're not scared, you're not frightened. As least that's what people should be _thinking_.

Sam Puckett is fucking invincible.

Tears are burgeoning, the whole ceremony's a flood. Carly receives her diploma with a perfect pink smile and tears dancing in her eyes. Freddie collects his modestly, a humble nod towards the principal and an awkward bow at the crowd while his mom snaps a shot. Gibby hails his name to the crowd with the usual spirit, sending students and parents alike into laughter.

So as soon as you collect your diploma from a scowling Mrs. Briggs, you do something totally Sam-ish.

"Yeah, baby! Sam Puckett graduated!" you dance incongruously in front of your old teacher, mocking her chagrin. "I'm outta this place. Take that, bi-"

And then Principal Franklin cuts her off with "Terri Quantil, University of North Carolina."

/

Graduation party consists of Carly, Gibby, Freddie, Wendy, a wandering Spencer, and a shitload of other people whose names you can't remember.

Chatter is filled with "_Thank you! Yeah, I'm so excited, I got in_!" and "_Gosh, we have to meet up with each other, like, all the time_."

All the people - their faces, their voices, they swirl around in your head in one messy blob. In a few weeks, you won't remember any of them.

Usually the life of the party, you don't recognize the queasy feeling in your stomach at first.

But when you talk to Joan Prisher, who's rambling on about how amazing it was she received a full-ride scholarship to Princeton, do you begin to think that you truly doesn't belong there.

"I er- need a drink," you excuse yourself politely (manners; what has gotten into you?) in order to pull yourself out of the disarray of guests.

You dash upstairs and head down the dim-lit hallway. A few party-goers still linger around, and seem to brighten at your presence.

"Hey, Sam!" a kid cries. "We're trying to plan a last-minute prank on Mr. Howard. We're sneaking over to his place in five. You game?"

You shove him aside, not giving him a second glance, and made for the purple door with a fancy "C" scrawled across the center.

You push the door open and run into him with a smirk on his face and a beer in his hand.

"You did it," he congratulates you.

You stare at the drink in his hand.

"There is no way Carlotta is serving that at her party."

He shrugs.

"I produce an world-known web-show, snuck into a television studio, broke into a pet-ographer's studio, _and_ hacked into an award show's feed_._ I can fake an I.D."

You continue staring at him disbelievingly.

"Graduation only comes once in a lifetime."

"I see."

Silence. It reminds you of the night he told you about his acceptance.

This isn't it. You need to be alone, you need to be by yourself. So, you make to leave.

"Well, nice knowing ya. Have fun at M.I.T."

"Wait," a strong hand grabs your shoulder.

You turn to face him as he sets the beer down, solemn as hell.

"Where are you going?" he stares at you intently. "You never mentioned it once."

You swallow. It's a question you've been avoiding for the past two years.

"You know... places."

"Sam, seriously."

"Why do you care?" you shrug. If it doesn't seem like it bothers you, it sure as hell shouldn't bother him.

"_Sam_."

Shit, he used the voice.

"I'm gonna work at the Groovy Smoothie."

_Lie_, you shot down T-Bo every time he asked. The place has too many memories.

"Sam, you need to do something with your life, you're better than that."

"Are you insulting T-Bo?" you digress.

"You're insulting yourself," he snaps back.

You know he's right. You could really make the most of your life if you wanted. But what's the point? You would just disappoint everyone's expectations.

Get arrested. Drop out of college. End up getting fired multiple times at a dead-end job. Just like your mother.

"Seriously, Sam. Why?"

You cringe. Here it was, the speech you've been dodging for the longest time.

"Sam, you deserve to go places," Freddie says sincerely, "You have so much to give, so much in you, why are you throwing this all away?"

Your face burns and you snap angrily at being questioned on your choices.

"Who are you to tell me that? I know I'm better than doing nothing!" you jab a furious finger at his collared shirt. I don't need some dork telling me what places I _could_ be, when I'm stuck _here_, with my mom, in Seattle, of all the stupid places in the world," and suddenly, against your will, your face crumples and buries itself in his shoulder as it weeps mercilessly.

This is probably the fourth time you've ever cried. The third time you've ever cried because of him. The first time you've ever cried in front of him.

He puts his arms around you, and you're too upset to resist.

You're pretty sure you ruined his shirt, and that he's aware of it, but he holds you tighter anyhow.

"Come with me."

You break from him at once, shock preventing you from forming sufficient sentences.

Finally, words come to you.

"_What?"_

A great word, can be used in all situations.

"Yeah. Yeah!" he says, as though he's really taking in the idea alongside you."It'd be great. You could do something in Boston, we could live together! C'mon, it'd be fun, it'd work out!" he starts rambling on, putting the kinks together.

"Freddie," you start, "I'm staying here."

"No, Sam; you have so much potential and you _know_ it. Why are you ignoring exactly what you deserve?"

You take a few steps back. No, he's worked so hard for this, and you're just dragging him down.

It's better to take a shortcut.

"I'm not going."

He stares at you excitedly, ignoring you're answer. "It'll be great."

You tap his head. "I think you've had too much to drink. See, this is why geeks shouldn't be allowed to have alcohol."

He continues to gaze at you; it's clear he's still not over the idea.

"Stop staring at me, nub."

"I don't know why you're denying this. You're amazing. You're funny, and strong," he begins listing, counting on his fingers as he goes, "and pretty, and even though you try not to act like it," he says earnestly, "you're smart, and convincing, and-"

You cut him off with a kiss.

It's only when your back hits Carly's bed and his shirt is unbuttoned halfway do you realize what the both of you are doing, and despite the passionate want and the fiery sensation building up inside, you know you're both drunk. If you do this, you will definitely not be able to let go of him. The alcohol on his lips is an overwhelming taste you'll be haunted with for a while if you do this.

"Freddie," you push him off yourself, but the indefatigable path of kisses doesn't cease. "_Freddie_." He trails kisses along your jawline, tracing all the way down to your collarbone and neck.

"Freddie, we can't do this."

He pulls himself off you, and despite the alcohol he consumed, he stares at you with a serious look.

"Why don't you come?" he asks with sad eyes.

You sigh, but you have to comply. He's not going to give up.

"Freddie. I've already fucked up my life enough. Why are you insisting I do the same to yours?"

He stares at you incredulously, filled with a burning white shock. "Is that what you think? You think I'll ruin my life if I chose to keep you in it."

You nod, glad he's finally comprehended the obvious.

He shakes his head vehemently, trying to wrangle your words.

"Dammit, Sam. I'm only going to fuck up my life if you're not in it. I _love_ you," he half-shouts.

Without warning, Spencer enters.

"Who wants to try my fajitas?" he exclaims in his usual frivolous manner, proudly holding up a platter of Mexican foods. The argument stops momentarily, and the both of you stare at him flat-faced. Only after he's made a fool of himself does he drink in the scene: you, sprawled on the bed with a rumpled up dress and him with an unbuttoned, damp shirt.

He pauses, trying to come up with something to alleviate the palpable awkwardness.

"Er... what'd you say, Carly?" he cries out the door, and turns to escape the room.

You sigh as he leaves, the tension still as high as the clouds in the sky. "What, Benson?"

"You heard me. I don't even care if you don't still love me. I'm not letting you throw your life away over this."

You stand up, outraged. "I _do_ still love you. Don't you realize, you're the smart one! Remember, _remember_ when I ruined tech camp for you? Remember when I almost got you arrested? Do you remember _any_ of that? I'm the person holding you _back_!" you shove him back, away from you. The bottle is sinking and no one will ever read the note.

He puts his hand on his forehead and drags it across his face.

"Yeah. I do remember."

You nod; maybe he'll finally agree with you.

He continues. "I don't care. You don't-"

"Well, _I _care. I want you to go places. You deserve it more than any-"

"Can I finish?" he asks, aggravated, and you let him.

He goes on. "Remember everything you did when we started iCarly? Like, giving Gibby wedgies, and selling Carly's gift to you, and changing our grades our grades on the computer, even though it'd screw us over?"

"Yeah?" Where is he going with this? This makes you feel so much better.

"I don't know if you realize how far you've come since then. You stood up for Gibby when he was getting bullied. It was your idea to connect Carly with her dad on her birthday. You quit your job at the Pear Store after I got fired. And-"

"Do you have a point here, Benson?"

He glares at you, a hard-set determination glinting in his eyes like the summer sun reflecting off a flowing river.

"If that isn't development, I don't know what is. You just don't see it. You're so much different than you used to be."

You bite your lip, at a severe loss for words.

"See how far you've come? Don't you see how you've ch-"

"Freddifer, shut up a second."

Damn, he has a point. You don't want him to win this easily; yet, he makes a very convincing argument.

Yes or no, yes or no? The answer goes back and forth like a ping pong ball in a table tennis game.

You _have_ come a long way. That journey doesn't have to change; it can keep going if you make the choice.

"So what's Boston like, then?"

He cracks a wide grin and embraces you, full-on.

"Great!" he says. "I'm flying out in two days to tour the campus again. We can go apartment scouting then."

You beam at his enthusiasm; maybe there is light at the end of the tunnel.

He holds you back and gives you an uncertain look. "You're sure you're coming?"

Rolling your eyes, you nod. Wasn't he the one who just preached to you?

"Shoosh, yeah. But the clam chowder better be good."

The bottle is opened, the skies have cleared, the note is read.


End file.
